


Shower Suite (I - IV)

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Backstory, Bathing/Washing, F/M, Gen, Heterosexual Sex, Injury, Sexual Content, Violence, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:10:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Lestrade showered with his clothes on, and one time someone undressed him and showered with him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shower Suite (I - IV)

**Author's Note:**

> A quartet of 221b!fics written for a  [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/) prompt [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5564.html?thread=18770364#t18770364).

_  
**  
Warnings: Angst, OC character death, drug use, bombing aftermath/response  
**   
_

I. Bodies

The forecast calls for rain, but Helen insists that their picnic go ahead as scheduled; and Lestrade, the dutiful copper, obeys her orders cheerfully. St. James’s Park is nearly deserted, giving them their pick of waterfront property. They sprawl upon a gingham sheet, sharing cold chicken and Cornish pastries, and see the future in each other’s eyes. A distant rumble signals a prudent retreat, but they lie still, shoulder to shoulder, until the ragged clouds form a single grey blanket close and heavy above their heads.

It is a sudden downpour. Within a few heartbeats they are soaked through, as if they’ve both been daft enough to step fully clothed into the shower. The drops are thick and heavy and cool in the August heat. They laugh, struggle to stand, join hands and run, but there is no shelter to be had from the growing storm. They tumble down where they are into the water soaked grass, the sheets of rain shielding them like a curtain from prying eyes. Her thin summer dress clings tightly to her skin as his hands and mouth rove over her. Her smile makes him reckless, and soon he is moving inside her, breathless. She rises and falls beneath him like a sea swell, and he slips under, feeling wave upon wave crash over their bodies.

II. Broken

Lestrade enters the empty flat and immediately toes off his shoes. Helen had wanted to keep the rugs looking new as long as possible. He stands in the half-dark just inside the doorway – a fixed point while time continues to flow around him. Shadows deepen, and light from the streetlamps seep in through the windows. The chill of the cemetery has followed him and he shivers despite the heaviness of his wool suit.

  
 _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust._   


He chokes on the memory (unbidden, raw) and something shifts loose. He makes his way slowly down the hall to the bathroom, fingertips trailing lightly along the wall to guide him. He fumbles for the tap in the dark, holds his hands under the gush of water until it warms. He shrugs his black suit jacket off his shoulders, lets it slip carelessly to the floor. The buttons of his starched dress shirt undo him, and he gives up on them without much of a fight.

The spluttering of the showerhead gives way to a steady thrum. He steps into the stream, feels the warm water soak through his clothes. He puts his hands up against the wall and leans forward, pressing his forehead against the cool tile, and tries not to think of her lying in that casket…alone and broken.

 

III. Blood

It’s a simple, albeit strange, case of breaking and entering. Lestrade is called in as a courtesy when the responding uniforms find his card among the interloper’s discarded clothes. He nears the open bathroom door, hears a silken, basso voice alternately singing snatches of _Botany Bay_ and reciting geometric theorems, and knows that the junkie in the shower is indeed the brilliant, insufferable young man that recently solved his last insolvable case. _Well_ , _one good turn deserves another_.

“Come on now, Sherlock, let’s go. This isn’t your flat anymore, remember?”

Sherlock is all blue lips and gooseflesh. His face brightens at the sound of Lestrade’s voice, and he smiles the smile of a child.

“Lestrade! You must join me.” Sherlock pulls him nearly off his feet and into a frigid stream of water. Cold seeps through his suit, seizes his breath. They struggle, and Sherlock’s arms slip through his fingers like spastic eels. Lestrade hears the crack of his skull on the hard tile, a thousand firecrackers pop behind his eyes.

“My, what pretty red ribbons you have in your hair,” Sherlock sighs. Two uniforms wrestle him to the ground, all sharp elbows and invectives. Lestrade sinks down the tiled wall, heedless of the cold. Rust-colored rivulets trail in his wake, until the steady stream of water washes away the blood.

 

IV. Breathe

 _Meet me at NSY. Urgent new development. –_ SH

John and Lestrade’s cab is still two blocks away from the Yard when the blast hits, rocking the cab and rattling the windows almost to breaking. They round the last corner on foot, crash into a wall of smoke and pulverized cement. The ghost of John’s voice echoes in Lestrade’s ears – _We’ve got to find Sherlock…was he in there?_ – until finally the battlefield demands the doctor’s full attention.

Lestrade digs through rubble, twisted flesh and metal until his hands are torn and bloody and he wears a layer of grey ash like a second skin. John finds him crumpled on a bit of slag, his final patient of the day.

Lestrade doesn’t remember taking a patrol car back to 221b, John guiding him up the stairs, into the bathroom, stripping him down, running the tap. Steam rises, and the water-logged air mixing with soot and ash in his throat chokes him like a fist. He coughs and splutters, barely keeping his feet. John’s arm around his waist keeps him afloat, but all he really wants to do is let go, sink down, follow the endless stream of water out to the sea. The only thing keeping him from drowning is the feel of John’s rough hands on his back, reminding him to breathe.


End file.
